The world is made of symbols.
The first thing I saw yesterday morning when I stepped out the back door was a hummingbird drinking from a trumpet vine.
This is God.
This is Love.
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When I say that I value process over product, I’m not saying that I don’t care what the paintings look like or that the final result isn’t important.
Obviously, art is meant to be looked upon and I do have an investment in what my paintings look like.
What I mean, when I say process over product is that the act of making art is, for me, a spiritual and energetic endeavor.
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This week, I reached the bottom of my energy well.
The very, very bottom.
There wasn’t one drop left.
I was an empty husk of nothingness - but not in an enlightened Buddhist monk sort of way.
I reached my limit of what I could bear:
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Now is the time for radical love and compassion.
It begins with you, in the inner chambers of your heart, and reaches out to the rest of the world.
Now is the time for harmony and alignment, for leaving behind your old stories.
It is the time to re-evaluate your thoughts and beliefs -
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Facebook memories remind me that this is a week I usually travel.
Each of those trips I’ve been on - I knew it was a gift - each one - I knew might be the last one.
Now, I can’t help but wonder if travel is a thing that will ever happen in my life again.
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I used to think the spiritual path - the path of self-help and wisdom teachings and mystical fairs, the path of sitting across the table from a tarot reader or praying with a priest - was the path of self-discovery.
I used to think the quest that burned in the center of my heart was the quest of finding myself.
If I could discover who I was, if someone could see me and tell my purpose to me, then I could thrive.
If I knew the dimensions of my light, then I could shine it.
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I moved to New York in the autumn of 1992, when I was 23.
I understood about myself that whatever it was I ended up doing with my life, it would be something creative, and New York seemed like a good place to be a creative.
Although I can’t say that I moved to the city with a plan for being a working artist, when I closed my eyes and envisioned my new life, I saw myself living in a loft apartment making paintings or developing performance art pieces.
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Two years ago yesterday, Tracy and I climbed the endless mosaic-covered steps up to our Air BnB in Laurel Canyon.
It was like walking a staircase into a dream.
Do you have a place like this?
A place that has inexplicably and illogically called to you your whole life?
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My neice and I joke that my car has anxiety.
It has a warning light and an alarm that sounds every time I start it, but there’s not actually anything wrong. I mean, I don’t know, there might be something wrong, but I’ve been driving with that warning light and alarm bell for about a year now.
Chronic free-floating anxiety is like that.
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I recently drove past a church on my way to a lacrosse game. The big sign out front said, Worry Less, Pray More.
My first thought was, I’m so grateful I don’t go to a church that has one of those signs. My next thought was, I’m actually okay with that theology. (I’m typically not okay with the theology espoused on this particular sign.)
I suppose if you think of God as a man in the sky who grants wishes, the idea of prayer sounds pretty silly, like surrendering your worries to the tooth fairy.
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